


Action: blow Body Part: neck

by TheHuggamugCafe



Series: Roll The Sex Dice [3]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad End Route, Corrupt!Arsène, F/M, Inspired by a sleep paralysis episode, Mild Akira/Reader, Persona!Arsène
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 16:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe
Summary: In the dead of night, a voice rouses you from slumber.You feelpressureashecoos in your ear.“To think that I am on your mind this much, that you unconsciously call to me as you are lost in a dream? This gentleman is touched,mon amour.”His words do nothing to stop the liquid heat that forms in your eyes, the hot moisture that burns the edge of your vision.His voice encourages your tears to fall; his touch threatens to let terror consume you.





	Action: blow Body Part: neck

**Author's Note:**

> Corrupt!Arsène was originally a “surprise muse” I had planned.
> 
> But then this happened a few nights ago. 
> 
> It completely dashed my plans of surprising this marvellous bitch to all of you.
> 
> Do enjoy, my dears.

The feeling of weights easing down upon you is the first sensation that welcomes you as your eyes flutter open. A block of ice may as well be sitting on your chest as you suck in air or, rather, you _think _you take in air. You feel your shoulders rise and fall; you feel your chest expand and retract. And yet, strangely, you feel no air coming in through your nostrils or mouth. What you _do_ feel is the deep chill coursing through your body, calling forth a sense of icy dread that results in a shiver that shoots down your back.

_Why can’t I move?_

Try as you might, you cannot get your body to cooperate: your arms remain splayed out in front of you; your cheek is still pressed into the familiar, lumpy warmth of your pillow; your legs are still where they’ve been since you first hit the bed, sans one foot dangling over the edge of the mattress.

You feel the cool draft whispering in through the window, left ajar to let in a breeze. It, the light draft, tickles your bare foot, naked toes and all. It does little to soothe the pace of your heart, beating fast and furious in your breastbone.

As though to make your quietly rising panic worse, you start to feel a cold sweat beginning to dampen your crown. You suck in a breath or you _think _you do, anyway. Honestly, you’re too petrified to really take notice if you can take air in or not.

Your stomach is doing flip-flops by this point, nausea swirling in your gut like a pinwheel spinning in high winds. You want to throw up. God, you’re going to be sick at this rate. You’re going to puke the warm, sickly moist remnants of what had been supper all over you and your husband, Akira Kurusu—

“_M__a chère__…”_

Time seems to screech to a halt and the darkness that surrounds you—broken only by the dim glower of the moonlight that shines in through the thin blue, see-through curtains that are draped in front of the bedroom window—looks as though the abysmal nothingness goes on forever to your wide, high-strung gaze.

If you could clutch the cool covers you’re lying upon, you would.

If you could open your mouth to call to your spouse for help, you would.

If you could do _anything _but lie there, hopelessly aware but totally immobile, you would.

_His _name forms at the back of your throat, ready to roll off of your tongue that feels oddly heavy, sticking to the roof of your mouth as if it is glued in place. The dread you felt earlier is nothing compared to the helplessness, the _carnal fear _you feel now.

_I’m dreaming… I’m dreaming… I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m—!_

The feeling of cool leather ghosting across the back of your shoulders causes your mind to freeze. All sense of thought is robbed as you feel _pressure _slowly resting down upon you. Your first instinct is to hitch in a breath but instead, much to your silent annoyance, you find that it is caught in your chest. As if sensing the chill plaguing you, there’s a chuckle from behind you—and oh _fuck_, you feel the mattress sinking as weight is applied, the covers rustling oh so softly—and the pressure increases until you see rather than feel arms caging you in.

The feeling of leather skims a path down your back, tracing where your spine is located. It is red and you know it is red simply due to instinct and past experiences. They are crimson. They will always, _always _be that shade of red that make the gloves look as though they’ve known the touch of blood.

You have a love-hate relationship with those accursed gloves.

You want to _swallow_.

You want to _scream_.

You want to _move_.

You want to _breathe_.

You want to _speak_.

You want to not be able to feel _anything_, no matter what it is: the hot puff of air that hits your nape, causing all of the hairs on your body to stand as straight as quills; the pressure that is there and yet, strangely, _not there_, gently brushing up against the cotton pyjama top you’re wearing; the warmth that envelopes you, slowly circulating through your body; the smooth leather clad fingers that brush against your bare palms, calling forth a feeling like white hot needles pricking across your fingers.

You hate this. You abhor feeling _aware_ and yet robbed of being able to _react_.

“You’re _trembling_, love.”

You _sense _rather than _hear _him murmuring into your ear. You feel a protest forming in your throat, but it dies on your tongue. You want to do something, _anything_, but you are restricted from willing your body to _move_.

_I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m dream—_

The feeling of leather brings your agitated thoughts to a screeching halt and, as if sensing your rising discomfort, _he_ chuckles into your ear.

“What would _he _think, I wonder…? If he knew that you think of me while he lies beside you at night?”

Oh how you wish you could speak. It’s as if someone has pressed a mute button on your ability to talk. There are so many retorts and words and curses you could toss at him if the gift of speech hasn’t been robbed from you. An abrupt and spiteful _“fuck you”_ being among them.

_I hate you. I loathe you. I detest you. You’re disgusting. You’re an abomination. You’re nothing but a spawn of Hell. You know nothing but—_

Again, the sensation of leather skimming over you pries you from your musings. Instinctively, you try to suck in a breath but, to your dismay, you remember that you have no control over what happens. You cannot talk. You cannot breathe. You cannot move, kick, punch, whimper, cry, or _scream—_all of that, your go-to actions and reactions, may as well be a door that has slammed shut on you—and that terrifies you as much as it enrages you.

Still, that does nothing to stop the liquid heat that forms in your eyes, the hot moisture that burns the edge of your vision. The splash of moonlight dancing on your bedroom wall to your left bathes your surroundings or rather, what little of your surroundings you can visibly distinguish in the play of dim light and shadow that plays across your room.

But no sight is more two-faced than the sight of your husband’s sleeping face. You can’t help but think of him as being an angel as your eyes zero in on him, quietly analyzing his features though you know them by heart. You’ve seen the innumerable smirks, smiles, sneers and grins that have curled his lips, displaying a hint or a full-on display of white teeth. Depending on his mood, whether you and he are alone or out with friends, his eyes can be like glimpsing into Heaven while his smile is like that of a devil’s. The same can be said for when his eyes are like glimpsing into Lucifer’s eyes and his smile is so, so heavenly that you expect an angelic chorus to start singing praises for him from the skies.

“I’m honoured, truly_… _To think that I am on your mind _this _much, that you unconsciously call to me as you are lost in a dream? This gentleman is touched, _mon amour_.”

_Stop. Please stop talking. _

Arsène breathes a hum into your ear. You hitch in a breath—once again, you _think_ you do since no air fills your lungs—as you feel leather clad fingers slowly, carefully card through your hair. You feel all of the hairs on your body stand, rapt with attention as sickly unease swirls anew in the pit of your stomach.

_Don’t touch me._

As though reading your mind and, worse, outright ignoring your silent pleas, the corrupt Persona who takes on your husband’s likeness laughs as the fingers of his free hand tap languidly on your side. The pressure is threatening to crush you, reduce your wavering defiance to nothing but dust to be blown in the wind.

“Ah, how I’ve missed your shivers, _mon Trésor_… They are quite a delight to my eyes.”

_Your words are poison! _

Ice shoots up your spine. Gooseflesh curdles its way across your flesh, pricking your body with the sensation of hypersensitivity. Smooth leather blesses your skin as the hem of your cotton shirt is lifted, baring a teasing glimpse of your lower back to his leer. You feel the soft warmth of lips pressing slow, dreadfully slow kisses of faux chastity to your neck.

_Stop. Please, please just stop. Go away, go away, go away—_

“_Chérie_?”

Being addressed by him catches you off-guard.

If you could grit your teeth, if you could just fucking _move_, roll over and smack him across the face, you would have done so without the slightest bit of hesitation or remorse.

You don’t—_can’t_—reply. Your mouth may as well be glued shut; your body may as well be weighed down by concrete and chains. You may as well be drowning in a deep, very deep lake, surrounded by nothing but the cold, empty darkness that is ready to swallow every trace of your existence.

You can only remain as you are: lying on the bed you share with your husband, Akira Kurusu.

You envy and loathe your spouse in equal amounts.

He can sleep without worry.

He can rest his eyes without a care in the world.

And yet here you are at the mercy of his corrupt “other self,” Arsène.

The nostalgic feeling of lips kissing a path from your shoulders to your nape makes you freeze; rather, you believe your body stiffens at the contact.

The question _ “What?” _lingers on the tip of your tongue, but for the life of you, you cannot force your body to comply with what your mind is screaming.

A short spell of hot air tickles the back of your neck.

Your mind conjures the face looking at you right now.

The mouth that blesses yours with beautiful nostalgia is curved, blowing air on your nape.

The onyx eyes you are so helplessly familiar with are tinged with red and marigold.

“Wake up.”

**Author's Note:**

> …
> 
> …
> 
> …
> 
> I would never, ever wish the sleep paralysis episode I experienced on _anybody_, not even my worst enemy.
> 
> I hope that this is the first and _last_ sleep paralysis episode I have.


End file.
